softly we struggle.

i.

i trawl the night for afterthoughts;
the Net manages only straggling
shrimp, some headless, others tailless, all
writhing, desperately, into incoherent

images. i grasp a handful: they
slither, suddenly snakes,
i flail; i fail:
only ghosts remain.

ii.

a general humming: the air vibrates
with monotony, creates
false equanimity. now, under
tacit command, i expect

instantaneous calamity, but
only the earth shifts, an infinitesimal
displacement, unnoticed as these
blades that surreptitiously

slice each minute into shreds.
still, i sense the stirring. is it
time? if i close my eyes,
will we still exist?